


Prairie Wind (the On The Day It Rained Forever remix)

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_rambleon, Gen, PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Out here, nothing to do, Dean's not getting better.</em> - A while after Dean's back from hell, Sam decides what his brother needs is a little downtime. It doesn't work out as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prairie Wind (the On The Day It Rained Forever remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prairie Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/206959) by [honeylocusttree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeylocusttree/pseuds/honeylocusttree). 



> She prompted a sequel of her fic Prairie Wind, with more comfort and/or from another POV. I asked her if I could do a remix instead, and she agreed. To thank her, I failed spectacularly at the more-comfort-thing. Oops? 
> 
> Beta'd by maypoles; thank youuuu! ♥ Also, honeylocusttree looked an earlier version of this over when I sent it to her to ask for her blessing. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "The Day It Rained Forever " by Slut.

There's no particular reason for it, not one event that prompts Sam to think that a little downtime would do them good – would do _Dean_ good, primarily. It's a clustering of little things: a delayed reaction here, a brief zone-out there, and all the nights Dean hardly sleeps. The fact that the first thing Dean reaches for in the morning is a bottle of liquor, or that Sam can't remember the last time his brother went to bed sober. 

Of course, none of that his new. Dean has been out of sorts for a long while, and by now Sam's so worried about him that he feels hollow himself. 

He hits Dean where it hurts, to get him to agree. One evening, over burgers and fries and watered-down Coke, he says his piece. Tells Dean that this can't go on, he's in no shape to be hunting, he's going to get himself hurt, or worse. Implies that he's not only a nuisance, but also a risk to Sam. 

Dean stares at him, long and hard and wounded, but he nods and mumbles his say-so.

 

***

 

And that's how they go and find themselves a home. For a while, not for good; Dean would never agree to settle down like that, much less in the middle of nowhere. The farmhouse is in backwoods Idaho, surrounded by nothing but fields and burnt grass for miles, and it belongs to one of Bobby's many aquaintances. They've rented it for a month. 

But out here, nothing to do, Dean's not getting better. The opposite, actually. With the background noise of motels and research gone and no other reason to pull himself together, the full extent of Dean's pain is becoming obvious; a spotlight cast on how very much not Dean he is these days. 

In the beginning he keeps himself busy. The first week, he brings the cabin up to speed, repairs this and that, chops wood. A thank you for being allowed to stay here, he says. The second, the Impala is the one to undergo intense maintence, but after almost three weeks, Dean stops doing anything. 

Sam never noticed how restless Dean usually is, unable to stand immobility, and he manages to deal with this new version of Dean for exactly two days before he has to get out. It's disguised as a supply-run, but he stretches it out for so long that it's early evening when he gets back. 

Dean's sitting on the porch, his expression blank and both palms pressed to the wooden surface. He scoots out of the way to let Sam pass but doesn't say anything.

"Hey, you hungry? I can make us dinner?" Sam asks, but Dean doesn't react to that either, keeps sitting where he is and alternately stares into the distance or at his hands. 

Sam does cook, as he said, but when he realizes Dean won't join him — again; it's been this way for the last couple of days — he throws it all into the trash. He feels nauseous at the sight of it, guesses this must be what it feels like to worry himself sick. He does the dishes, cleans the kitchen, packs away the food and supplies he bought, and by the time he's done with that it's gotten dark outside. 

Dean's still out there. Sam sits down next to him, says "You're not staying out here", full stop, no question, and Dean looks at him blankly. It takes him a moment to come up with a reply. 

"It's early," he finally answers, as if that's the point here, makes any difference. His eyes are downcast again, avoiding Sam's gaze. 

Sam gets up, goes inside without another word. 

 

***

 

When Dean eventually strolls into the room, Sam doesn't mean to start a fight – he's glad Dean came inside of his own accord – but he can't hold his tongue either. "I thought you didn't mind the sofa?" It comes out the wrong way, too soft, too much like pity. 

Dean blinks. "What?" 

"Why are you spending all night outside?" Sam waves his hand vaguely at the door for emphasis, notices Dean's gaze following the gesture. 

"Is it a problem for you, Sam?", Dean snarls, with a barely noticable delay, as if he needed a moment to recognize that he's supposed to get pissed off here and switch into defence. "Is it a _problem_?" 

No matter what Dean's going through, he's always able to work up the energy to get angry at Sam if he so much as implies there's something wrong. Worrying is Dean's birth right in this family, not Sam's. He's made that clear more than once. 

"Not for _me_ ," Sam replies. 

Dean stares at him as if waiting for more, daring Sam to go on so he can claim he's fine and Sam's freaking out about nothing, although they both know it's a lie. Sam won't do him the favor. He knows Dean can't stand silence for long, not like this, not when there's a fight ongoing and he's trying to get the ball out of his corner. 

"This whole thing was _your_ idea, Sam," he pushes out through clenched teeth, eyes furious with what he may think is rightful indignation. "You didn’t tell me there were gonna be _rules_ about what I do!"

There are countless things Sam wants to reply to that, but he feels rage surge through him like a wave, and he knows his brother, knows that's exactly what he wants. Dean would let this escalate just to prove to Sam that it's pointless, that there's nothing to worry about in the first place. Sam bites the inside of his cheek, just once, just a little, shakes his head and throws his hands up. Without another look back at Dean, he turns and flees to the back of the house. 

 

***

 

Dean walks past him in the kitchen, doesn't spare him so much as a look. Sam doesn't raise his eyes from his book either, just mumbles a plea for Dean to eat something that he knows will be ignored. 

It's the other porch today, out back, where there's a wide field, high grass as far as the eye can see. Sam likes it out there, spends hours just walking. He finds it soothing, calming, and in spite of knowing better, he hopes it will have the same effect on Dean. 

Hope never did them any good, though. 

Barely ten minutes, and Sam gets nervous for no reason; bad feeling. He makes himself stay in the kitchen for five more minutes, on principle, but then he can't stand it anymore and follows Dean out back. 

If Dean will chew him out later for mother-henning, so be it. 

Sam finds him by the fence that separates this property from the next. It's made of old, rusty razor wire and Dean — 

The fucking idiot. He's clutching the wire, blood all over his hands, eyes at half-mast, leans into it with his full weight. He looks like he's in some kind of trance, or maybe ecstasy, and why would he even _do that_?

In a few long strides, Sam's at his side, tears his hands away from the wire. As soon as he's got nothing to hold on to anymore, Dean half-falls to the ground, limp, and Sam pulls him the rest of the way down until he's sitting on the grass. 

" _Goddammit Dean, what the hell are you trying to do?_ " Sam knows getting angry is exactly the wrong reaction, but he can't help it. He's too furious to hold it all in, at Dean and heaven and hell and everyone who ever hurt his brother or fucked him over, and if he's not letting it out now he's going to choke on it. 

The look in Dean's eyes stops him short. "Sam— ” He leans back, putting all his weight on his injured hands, and doesn't even flinch. Like he doesn't feel it at all. “What are — Jesus — ”

Sam's hunkers down, yanks Dean forward — off his hands — and Dean breaks eye contact, looks away when he says, "No, Sam, it’s okay." 

And that's too much. Nothing is _okay_. Anger and the need to get Dean back from whatever place he's in right now, to _get Dean back_ , conspire and before Sam knows it he raises his hands and slaps Dean flat across the face. "Idiot! Fucking — fuckin’ idiot, look at this!” He has to stop, swallow, and his own voice sounds foreign to him, thinner, when he continues. "What did you _do_ , Dean? _Why?_ "

Dean's head whips back around, and he looks at him, at his own hands, and back. "Sam," he whispers, in a tone so small and lost that it makes all the anger flow out of Sam instantly. "Sam."

With a chocked whine, Sam pulls Dean in, tugs at him until he's lying across is lap, and Dean's hands come up to grab at Sam's arms. They sit still like that, and for a while Sam waits for sobs that never come. 

Finally he raises to his feet, carefully, pulls Dean back up with him, and Dean follows him back to the house without protest, limp and stiff. 

 

***

 

In the bathroom, Sam makes Dean crouch in front of the bathtub to wash the blood and the dirt off his hands. He leaves him sitting where he is when he's done, to get the desinfectant from their duffle bags, and only when he's dabbing at Dean's hand with a washcloth bathed in alcohol does Dean show some sign of pain, hissing when the cloth touches the wounds.

Sam's almost relieved, risks asking Dean again, "Why'd you do it?"

"Hurts." He stares down at his hands, fascinated, makes fists and opens them again. 

"Yeah, I bet it does, you asshole. But why — "

"It hurts. That's why." Dean's tone is slightly annoyed, as if Sam's stupid for not getting it. 

Sam presses on, figures if he's ever going to get answers out of his brother, now is the time. "You wanted it to hurt?" 

"Yes. Everything's easier when it hurts. Clearer." He stills, but his gaze never leaves his hands. "Quiet."

And suddenly, Sam does get it. Not all of it, he couldn't, but this is something he can grasp at, research and read up on, try to fix. There won't be any articles that apply to what Dean's been through, obviously, but trauma survivors and self harm, that can't be a new thing. "The pain helps?"

"Yeah. No." Dean looks up at him with a small, thin-lipped smile. "I know what you're doing, Sammy. Not gonna coax me into a heart-to-heart, here." 

Sam holds his hands up, mock-surrender. "Hey, I'd never. Stay here while I get the first aid kit."

All throughout the stitches, Dean keeps still. He barely flinches, his eyes follow the path of the needle as it dips into his skin and comes back out the other end; he only moves to cock his head to the side a few times, as if he's listening for something. 

When he's done and bandaging Dean's hands up, Sam's extra careful not to hurt him any more than he has to, although he couldn't say if it's despite the fact that Dean wouldn't mind the pain, or because of it. "Do you want to stay here? The house?"

Dean looks at him like he can't quite believe Sam's giving him a choice about it, eyebrows raised, eyes wide. "No. I'd rather not."

"What then, hunting? Do you want to go back to work?" Sam's not sure how he feels about that, Dean in the vincity of weapons and sharp objects after what happened today.

At first, Dean smiles at that, nods, but then he his gaze wanders down to his bandaged hands. He flexes them, and when his eyes meet Sam's again, there's raw pain in it, something like desperation but also understanding and a sort of self-awareness Sam didn't ever think he'd see in his brother. 

Which is stupid. He of all people should know Dean better than that. 

"I don't think I — Not right away, okay?"

"Okay." Sam touches Dean's shoulder lightly, then tugs at his shirt to make him get up. "But for now, lets get you into bed?" 

It scares him a little how readily Dean follows that suggestion. He stands, allows Sam to herd him to the bedroom without a word of complaint, gets under the covers as willingly as a five-year-old after a long and exhausting day. Within minutes, he's out like a light. 

Sam dozes off in an armchair in the corner of the room after he's watched over his brother's sleep for half the night. 

 

***

 

They leave the farm the next morning, in a direction they pick by pointing blindly at a road map. Where they go makes no difference, being in motion is what matters. 

Sam doesn't know if it's going to help, or if maybe Dean's past that, but he has to try.


End file.
